Evolution of Evil
by FantasmaTraNoi
Summary: About how Ratigan's wickedness developed. Sort of a psychological biography. Set loong before he met Basil  i.e., he does not feature in this story . OCs: his family and some minor characters. Deaths included. Scary final scene.
1. The Path of Most Resistance

_**Note: This story features a few minor original characters, e.g. Ratigan's family members and later on some others he meets throughout this adolescence and young adulthood. Initially, he is referred to as Padraic, which is the first name given to him by Eve Titus. Padraic Ratigan (C) Eve Titus and Disney.**_

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><p><strong>The Path of Most Resistance<strong>

During the early hours of a familiarly cold and wet mid-November morning, a newborn rat first saw the light of day. Yet it was not light; the dank sewer, filled with the malodorous stench of yellow-tinged wastewater and putrid debris, was still dark, save for the dim, irregular illumination of the flickering candle that Mr. Seamus Ratigan was carrying.

"I can't take it, I can't!" echoed the repeated screams of his wife, exhausted by the painful ordeal of giving birth to another litter. "Take care of them, Seamus! Be a good father!" she managed to say before surrendering to a horrendous blood cough.

"I will, Jo dearest," her husband promised. Three days after the incident, her dark eyes closed forever. Mr. Ratigan was left alone with six little pups; his older offspring had long since left their nest, and their parents had not heard from them for some years. Ratigan mourned his wife's passing; yet after gradually increasing attempts to drown his grief and generally bleak outlook on the grim, purposeless future that lay before him with any inebriant he could get his hands on, the promise he had made shortly before her dying day seemed doomed to be broken. Though no wicked rat, he lacked a sense of responsibility, and his horrid habit would mar the atmosphere of any place he set foot into, especially his home.

Years passed, and only three of the young ones were able to survive enough winters to reach adolescence. Mr. Seamus Ratigan's drinking habit had worsened, much to the vexation of the staff of the dairy shop that he owned. What additionally exacerbated things was that his business was faring more and more poorly; an ambitious young mouse had recently opened his own dairy shop nearby, attracting far more customers than Mr. Ratigan. In spite of these miserable prospects, he did not consider closing down as long as at least _some_ money came in; when she was still alive, he had agreed with his wife to pay for their children's schooling, for they knew that life was destined to be cruel for those who were uneducated. Ratigan's ancestors were of a higher class; yet his father was an incurable gambler, leaving his own family with but little of what he had originally possessed, and thereby causing their social descent. Unfortunately, the old rat's son had inherited a similarly destructive addiction, and what was more, rather disregarded the importance of a high intellectual status. He knew that the time would very soon arrive when he would retire; and although he had made enough money to support himself till the end of his life, which, he presumed, would end sooner or later due to some common illness, being the irresponsible rat he was, he placed little importance on the material future of his youngest offspring.

In the meantime, his daughter Patricia, and his sons, Rodney and Padraic, were soon to be finished with their schooling. Patricia had grown into a considerate, conscientious, but frail girl; Rodney was a reckless, pleasure-seeking young rat, taking much after his grandfather; and Padraic appeared to have been cast in an entirely different mould. While Rodney was out playing sports with his friends after school, frequently neglecting his homework, his brother locked himself in his room, studying – voluntarily. Not only was he supremely intelligent, but also possessed great ambition, and a desire to succeed at whatever he strove to achieve. His teachers praised him for his diligence and confidence; and yet, he remained a loner, for interacting with his peers was of no interest to him, nor did it please them to spend time discussing school matters after the bell had finally rung. Padraic was not particularly well liked by his classmates; however, they were in awe of him, and wherever he went, he radiated a certain uncanny charisma. He disdained his brother's simplistic attitude to life and his father's lack of responsibility, and made no secret out of it. Intelligence, knowledge, vision, success – these were the things Padraic held in high esteem. He had found out about his family's history, and it irked him that his grandfather had managed to sink so low. In contrast to his peers at school, he was the only one who resided in the ugliest, dankest area of the sewers. He was aware that his parents had desired that he and his siblings at least receive some education, and that they had to sacrifice a more respectable home for this. But it angered him – the lack of control over one's primitive desire for pleasure. His grandfather's waste of money; his father's alcoholism; and Rodney was apparently following in their footsteps. How could they be so ruthless, so ignorant about what really mattered in life? So uncontrolled? A sense of control, Padraic thought, was extremely important.

He sometimes thought about his late mother. He had never known her, only knew that her death was painful and horrible. He wondered what she was like; had she been a curious, studious lady rat? Or an average pup-breeding female who had never read a book out of her own choice? His father had told him that she was a 'good, clever one'. How clever was she exactly, Padraic would ask himself. If she had been cleverer than her husband, he would have respected her greatly. He always imagined it must have been his mother who had insisted that he was sent to school; seeing how his father was doing, Padraic could not fancy that it had been _his_ wish.

"Don't be so hard on father, Padraic," his sister said when once again, he complained about his obnoxious drunkenness in her presence. "I believe it must have been the grief over poor mother that got him into his wicked habit."

"Grief? Stupidity is more likely," her brother replied. The brilliant rat could not understand emotions as well as considerate Patricia – the only emotion he often felt was resentment. He was not really a creature of sentiment, but rather one of cold reason, though he did occasionally have the tendency to be on the verge of losing his temper.

Padraic excelled in mathematics and the sciences, and though not artistically gifted, at least in the visual realm, he was particularly fond of art and beauty in its many forms. Little did his family suspect that he planned on continuing his education after he was done with school, until he announced it one afternoon.

"Go to University? Whatever for? You'll finish school in less than a month, you've even skipped a class – you're a smart lad! What else do you still need to learn? You can take over my shop when I retire, you don't need to listen to them boring lectures for that!" Seamus Ratigan replied with a playful sneer that infuriated his son.

His brother commented, "Insane, are you? Sit in classes for longer than you must? Besides, you've still to find a half decent job, a pretty girl, and get married and get comfortable, like you should – you think you'll find a good wife in an all-male lecture hall? Hahahaha!"

_Find a girl? Get married?_ Rodney's words disgusted him. Marriage would not teach him anything worthwhile; apart from that, he had not the slightest interest in girls. The few that he was especially attracted to were not women; and it was primarily their brains that had won his admiration. He had never had reason to be confused about this, except when other boys his age were busy hunting after females and one of them had the audacity to ask him what sort _he_ liked, to which Padraic plainly answered with "None, really". Needless to say, this caused much whispering and childish giggling in the school yard.

Padraic was thinking of a retort to his brother's statement when his sister spoke.

"Padraic… you know our situation is tough. You'd better find work as soon as you can….or listen to father and take over his shop, if Rodney won't. We have little; but we should be content with what we have been provided with up to now."

"I absolutely disagree!" the ambitious brother cried. "As you are well aware, I possess a rare gift that no one I have yet had the honour of being acquainted with does, and I shall certainly make it my goal to further hone the superior mind I have been endowed with. Why should I listen to what you say?" Each member of his family was pierced by his blazing eyes . "_You_ are…not even worth my company! Father – how can I possibly respect a drunkard like you? Is this really all you adhere to in your wretched life? Liquor-filled bottles? And Rodney – you don't seem to be any better, frequenting pubs, betting and debauching in any physical pleasure you can find? There's no speck of complex thought that ever crosses your simple mind! And Patricia – I know you're a girl; but what does that matter? You care more about serving everyone you know for nothing than reading and educating yourself. You're _my_ sister, for God's sake! I refuse to have a dumb sister. I know you can be so much more! You choose to defend the lazy rather than face the truth about what they are. You're hard-working yourself – don't you dream of being more than an average doomed housewife someday? Do you have no imagination for a better future?"

Patricia coloured, yet, peace-loving as she was, thought it best not to respond to her brother's reproaches. She admired his independence; but could not understand him, no matter how hard she tried. For his sake, she wished he had been born into another family, into more elevated circumstances.

"Now see here, Padraic," Seamus Ratigan snarled, now visibly angered, "This is the way things are, and this is the way they shall be. You seem to forget that Arrogance is a vice like any other. Pull yourself together, boy! You shall graduate from school and take over the management of my shop. That's that! Rodney will help you…"

"_Never!" _Padraic spat with loathing in his countenance. For the first time, his brother, perplexed by the words uttered, felt intimated by him, and took a step back for fear of being attacked in some way. For a few moments, it was silent.

Then, he continued, agitatedly, "Father – I have decided to leave this rotten place. I'm going to find work and pay for my higher education, even if I must nearly starve myself. With my grades, I should receive a place at one of the best Universities around. I shall study chemistry, and nothing you say shall stop me."

The other Ratigans were flabbergasted at the theatrical nature of Padraic's speech.

"If it weren't for my promise to your mother," his father said with clenched teeth, "I wouldn't even continue to pay one more penny for your last weeks of school, you ungrateful little devil! Now shut up, think about how dreadful and selfish your conduct has been, and apologize afterwards."

Padraic frowned, narrowed his eyes at his consanguine opponent, but indeed, was silenced at last. He left the parlour and locked himself in his room, pondering how to proceed with his plan for the future. Smouldering hatred was stirred within him when he heard his father crack open another bottle of intoxicating liquid.

"I shall leave indeed, as soon as I can," he thought to himself, "and none of these people shall miss me. They are beneath me. I should not be surprised that what I talk about is beyond their capability of comprehension."

The self-centred, ingenious rat took a pen and paper, and made a list of possible places he could apply to for an occupation that would provide him with enough money to rent a small flat and finance his studies. His siblings would still be at school for another year; in the meanwhile, he would have rooms of his own, and even if he would be condemned to dwell in another slum of London for until he was finished with his studies, it would be worth it – so he thought – for he would live in fine conditions afterwards for the rest of his life, in contrast to the rest of his family, who did not even consider attempting to ascend the social ladder. He did not care about what they would do in his absence. They were inferior.

They did not hear a word from Padraic until the next afternoon.

"Well? Don't you have a few words to say to me?" his father asked.

"I am sorry if I offended you," Padraic began, and for a moment, his father's hard expression softened – until his son continued, "But I stand by my words, and have not changed my mind. I shall apply for an occupation tomorrow, leave this place as soon as I have found one, and pursue the studies of my choice. I will thrive in my career, and my name shall be known throughout the Continent and beyond. You may live your life as you wish, but without me."

Seamus Ratigan shook his head, but said nothing. He believed his son was only going through a phase, and would dismiss these strange fancies after awhile. Though appalled at Padraic's behaviour towards him, his paternal affection was unconditional, so he did not stay too angry with him. However, some time later, an incident occurred that would change his life and the relationship with his son forever.

After a month, Padraic, as expected, graduated from school with distinction. He had kept it a secret from his family that he had indeed found employment that would pay relatively well and guarantee him an extremely modest, but self-sustaining life. He had applied at a renowned mouse lawyer's office for a position as a full-time typist, which was not the most intellectually demanding work, but sufficed for his temporary purposes.

Finally, he disclosed the news that he had found work – and told his family that the contract had already been signed, and that he would start in a week. Initially, his father approved. "I'd still prefer you'd take over my shop," he began, "but it's a decent profession." Padraic looked into his father's bloodshot eyes and said, "You do know that this is only a temporary means to an end? I will work for some months until I can afford a little flat for myself, and around mid-autumn I should have moved out of here."

Seamus Ratigan's face reddened. "You're still considering that university thing, aren't you?"

"Naturally," said his son calmly. "I always mean what I say."

"Well, then," the father said, shrugging his shoulders, as a false attempt to appear indifferent, "what will be, will be. You'll change your mind sooner or later." He nodded at his own statement, and resumed his former tirade about the decrease in his customers and his rival mouse shopkeeper. "You'd think that just 'cause I'm from the sewers, and my shop isn't as germ-free, that little bloke is getting more customers than me, mice and rats alike. They're so conceited, them mice are."

_You could be dwelling somewhere else_, Padraic thought to himself. _You're a damned sewer rat out of your own will. But I... I'm going to leave this filthy place one day. If only I was born another kind of rat... No, I'd rather not be a rat at all. They all despise us...those mice are always more successful than my vile type... I've never encountered any sewer rat who wanted to escape his milieu. I shall be the first! I'll create a new identity for myself and leave this low life behind for good!_

After his little reverie, Padraic got up and withdrew into his room.

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><p>*** Six months later***<p>

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><p>"You can't possibly leave us, Padraic! It would be most horrible of you. Father is at death's door, and Rodney has been threatened to be expelled from school, you know how he is. It doesn't even make sense for him to take over father's business since it's going so badly and the shop is closing, but there's nothing else he can see himself doing now. You must please stay and support us since you're earning money, until Rodney finds work and I am married. I beg you! If there's a heart beneath that cold exterior, which I am certain there is, you can't just run away in this manner! How are we supposed to survive?"<p>

Desperate, Patricia burst into tears. Rodney was absent, playing sports with his friends somewhere outdoors.

Additionally to suffering the consequences of drinking in excess, Mr. Seamus Ratigan had caught pneumonia, and was in a terrible condition. His son, by that time having worked as a typist for half a year, had gathered enough money to be able to rent a room, which he had found in the Soho; he was away from home for the entire day, and maintained little personal contact with his family, save for a few words.

Padraic was furious at his sister's request. Rodney was a self-indulgent idiot, and he saw no reason to support him if he was unwilling to feed his brain with knowledge. He would have to see how he survived by himself. And Patricia? Foolish, emotional girl, he thought. Why did she always have to forgive Rodney's vices and pretend he was a good lad? Padraic would never forget how his brother had mocked him for his dreams and laughed at his diligence. Why did she always have to care about Rodney's well-being when he did not deserve it? Well, marriage would certainly do for her. Most men craved a plain, endlessly supportive wife who had no goal of her own.

"We have hardly any savings left," she then continued among several sobs, "we've used them all up since less money has been coming in from father's shop. You can't be so cruel and just leave! He did pay for our education, after all, remember that! You can't entirely disrespect him just because of his bad habits and some of his decisions. That's wicked."

"So be it then. It's actually he who does not respect me, his own son, for what I am. He refuses to recognize my genius and see to it that it is nurtured, which is his damned responsibility! He would rather have me continue to reside in the sewer than break through and rise above, just because he thinks this way of life is fine for himself. It is not for me! I detest it! I'm designed for something better, and I shall pursue it!"

"You are so incredibly selfish, Padraic. Your genius fails to understand that it is not entirely his fault that we are where we are! Remember it was his own father who wasted all the wealth he once possessed."

"Perhaps, but our father does not seem to mind. That's what angers me."

"You are greatly mistaken. He could have decided simply _not_ to pay for your education if he was truly so indifferent to it. If it weren't for that, you wouldn't even be having these goals of yours."

"He should remember his great-grandfather's status, then, and realize that it is laudable that I wish to return to the Ratigans' former lifestyle as the only one in his family. What about our older siblings who survived? We know nothing about them. They all quit school after a few years and left, to God only knows where. And father does not even care a bit about this disgrace!"

Patricia sighed. "I must be able to understand that someone with your abilities is so obsessed with a high status," she then said. "So I forgive your mean words once again. Padraic, please do stay."

But Padraic was not moved. "Farewell, Patricia!" he said. And after having packed a large suitcase, he went out of the house.


	2. Departures

**Departures**

Time passed; Padraic Ratigan was notified that his father had passed away. Yet he had determinedly cut all ties to his family, and the news left him coldly unaffected. By then, he resided in small rooms in the district of Soho. Though opposed to his refined tastes, notorious for its reputation as the city's largest congregation of various despicable indecencies, it cost but little, and provided a modest but familiarly damp roof over the self-seeking maverick's head, so as to keep him away from his former dwellings. He had, shortly after his permanent departure from the family nest, received a place at University College London, one of the better educational institutes in his country, since he knew it was in vain to apply at Oxford or Cambridge, as those locations were too far away from where he was employed; and he could not yet afford to migrate from the capital. Nevertheless, he could not have gained more satisfaction from his present state. He was pursuing studies of chemistry, and was supporting himself entirely on his own. Unfortunately, he was compelled to work several hours during the early afternoon and evenings, therefore was only able to visit morning lectures. But he consoled himself with the thought of being a high-achieving student who did not struggle with most of the material he was presented with, and he studied during the dark and still night hours while most of his colleagues were slumbering. The subject fascinated him exceedingly, and he became very fond of researching – so fond, in fact, that he harboured the dream of becoming a professor, when things would look more fortunate for him.

The ambitious young Ratigan not only stood out from the other students due to his sharp intellect and vigour, but also due to his appearance; surrounded by mice, save for two odd exceptions, he was one of the only rats who attended university. The casual observer would never suspect that this state of uniqueness caused him any particular discontent – since he had always prided himself in his uniqueness – yet during certain irrational moments, it did faze him that he had not been born small and dainty like the vast majority of his colleagues – and his instructors. He began to secretly feel ashamed of the species of which he was a representative; how came it that so few of his kind aspired to educate themselves as highly as their brains were adequately designed for? But in this city's more elevated range of society, it was the more diminutive rodent that, paradoxically, had apparently succeeded at ascending greater realms than its more sizable counterpart. Wherever the most respectable rats were to be found these days – it was certainly not in the city of London. In spite of having been occasionally honoured with exorbitant praise from his teachers, and betimes begrudged for his gifts by lesser talented colleagues, Ratigan had reason to feel a misfit, and dreaded the days and the sceptical eyes when he would have to convince his slight superiors that he was suitable for a profession of high position. Yet he quickly dismissed these dark thoughts, telling himself that he was the only one worthy of an exceptionally superior position anyway...

One day, he would be able to afford some handsome new attire, and at least be able to demonstrate the exalted elegance that existed within his furry dull grey exterior on an outwardly recognizable level to everyone but the blind. One day, when he had graduated with the honours he deserved, and had earned and saved a sufficient sum to pay for these luxuries.

And his brother Rodney? He would forever run about in the filthy sewers where his unsophisticated soul felt at home, and would never amount to anything of merit, whilst he, Padraic, gave extraordinary lectures and speeches, and dedicated himself to researching the mysteries of the world and putting this knowledge to universal use. He might even find a like-minded, similarly gifted someone with whom he could share his quests...might. A genius of his calibre was as rare a find as a blue diamond.

And his sister Patricia? She was probably a married housewife by now. Unless she had made a lucky match, she would be breeding more doomed little sewer rats (he shuddered at the mere thought as the word echoed in his head) to pollute the city. Foolishly considerate and overly kind-hearted as she was, she would probably bear the chains of motherhood with delight. Motherhood...what was it worth? Nothing but death was what it led up to, as he knew from his own late mother. In the worst case, Patricia's husband might prove himself to be a gambling, drinking idiot as her grandfather had been, and she would suffer from her own foolish decision to get married to an imbecile when she deserved something better. But once a woman had made her decision, there was no more escape – unless she divorced, and finally died, eternally stigmatized, in shame and abject poverty.

For a moment, Ratigan was seized with a brief feeling of guilt; he questioned himself as to why he was so absolutely indifferent to his sister, who indeed had always been sweet and kind. This was the reason: she had no other virtues but the goodness of her heart; she was plain, had no drive or imagination whatsoever. She was, by nature, a servant. Ratigan could not respect submissive servants who lacked intellect and opinions of their own. The fact that she was a girl was irrelevant; he had known of women who had been clever in their own ways – or at least, ways that their husbands and fathers reluctantly allowed them – and he would not mind in the least if he could boast about having a headstrong, clever sister. What use was it to the world to have infinitely kind, but stupid people? Intelligence was what the world needed, and desperately. Yes, this was it: he thought little of his poor sister. A tiny seed of doubt as to the justification of his arrogant attitude was only beginning to emerge from his callous heart, when his icy mind decidedly buried it with its stinging cold.

One afternoon, before leaving for the office, Ratigan discovered a letter in his little mailbox. _"URGENT"_ was written over the envelope, and with great curiosity, he opened it...

"_Dear Mr. Padraic Ratigan,_

_It is with great reluctance that I decide to write to you on your sister Patricia's behalf. I am informed that you have severed all contact to your late father, and siblings, who were until very recently ignorant of your current address. Thanks to several mutual acquaintances at the University College, I am now capable of writing to the correct one, and I trust that the intended recipient is now reading these lines._

_Your sister has fallen ill – I emphasize, gravely ill. She was and is heartbroken at your cruel conduct –leaving your family and never thinking it worth the effort to contact your siblings every once in a while to ensure they are at least safe and healthy; so she was unwilling to inform you of these sad news at first. But knowing you are, besides your brother Rodney, the only living relative she knows of, she has decided it is worth an attempt; and I agree with her._

_I am sorry to tell you that you have left your family in very terrible circumstances. As you might have predicted, your father has passed away leaving very little money behind; both your siblings were compelled to quit their schooling. Rodney has found a simple position where he earns an extremely meagre sum of money, and Patricia has become very recently engaged to one Mr. Conroy, whose acquaintance she made through a friend of hers; he has the means to offer her a brighter future, and is a decent young man. Unfortunately, it is not very likely that she should ever live to see her wedding. For three weeks, she has been confined to bed at Westminster Hospital, and to be frank, the illness will sooner or later put an end to her short life. _

_It would be an evil and shameful act on your part if you do not come to see her instantly and apologize for the damage your selfishness has already caused. Miss Patricia is as kind a soul as any brother could wish to have, and she tells me she would be ready to forgive you, for you are only animal, as we all are. Rodney is in great distress, for his sister is all he has now; and he has sworn to forgo his youthful mischief and behave like a grown rat. Until he finds employment that pays better, he depends on your financial support. It would evince your compassion if you gave up your studies for a year or two and helped him survive._

_I cannot force you, Mr. Ratigan, to do as your family appeals; however, as a mouse who is devoted to aiding the infirm, I implore you to think your past actions over and to avail yourself of the opportunity to atone for your sins._

_Regards,_

_Dr. Andrew Sutton, MD" _

For a moment, Ratigan felt a shiver run down his spine. It was only recently that he had thought about Patricia's possible fate – he had not exactly envisaged his sister currently lying at death's door. He creased his face into a frown, and for a split-second he dreaded that his emotion would get the better of him, which it did. Irate tears stung his eyes, and he wished in vain that he could prevent these symbols of weakness from streaming down his hollow cheeks. But the fraternal instinct that had originally released the salty fluid quickly gave way to another trigger – self-pity. He was being asked to give up his dream and pay for his good-for-nothing insolent brother, who he knew for certain would resume his old habits of wasting precious time and money! Oh, but how could he possibly blame this good physician for not knowing Rodney as well as _he_ did...

Nevertheless, he was overwhelmed with the gruesome effects of a bad conscience. Poor Patricia! He had not foreseen the probability of a death so untimely for her.

_Then again, why should it be of your concern?_ a devilish little voice inside him asked. It would have occurred anyway, sooner or later. Every minute some unfortunate being perished from illness; it was nothing particularly extraordinary. His mother had suffered the same fate; and perhaps Fate was only being good to Patricia by releasing her from the pains of a poor woman's life earlier than anticipated. Heaven knows Mr. Conroy was not as decent as Mr. Sutton described him!

_Intelligence is what the world needs_, the fiendish voice resounded in his head yet again. _You've no use for poor, stupid people._ Ratigan experienced an inner battle between the moralizing remnants of his conscience and the whispers of his heartless, egoistic reasoning. Finally, it became evident which of the adversaries was the more powerful combatant. Ratigan scrunched up the letter he still held in his hand and resolutely threw it into the next litter bin. He would not witness his sister's demise, for he had matters of greater importance to attend to. He would not begin to support his silly brother, who would most certainly break his promise and once again behave like a debauching dullard. Ratigan wondered whether he was committing a felony by making this utterly unsympathetic decision; but ultimately, he did not care. "Sometimes, a sacrifice is necessary, if it can dispose of onerous obstacles on the way to one's destination", he thought.

The malicious spirit prevented him from replying to the sender of the mournful epistle. Never thereafter did he learn about the considerably gruesome and lachrymose circumstances of his siblings' cruel fate; he succeeded at erasing this objectionable chapter of his life from his mind, and continued with his daily routine as if he had had no past prior to departing from his roots.


	3. Double Identities

**Double Identities**

Two years later, perspicacious Ratigan was awarded a Bachelor's title, and continued his post-graduate studies in chemistry to become Master of the science. As it had become increasingly difficult to avoid afternoon classes by then, he searched for work that he could do during the night hours as well as continuing his employment at the lawyer's office in the early mornings. It goes without saying that he hardly had any leisure time, and what little remained of his free hours, he spent asleep.

So it chanced that under the pseudonym Mr. Stanley Wickham – he would have never given away his true identity, for that would have caused him grave embarrassment – he applied for, and obtained, a primitive job behind the bar of a well-frequented, though rather seedy pub near the waterfront. Five nights a week, between 7 p.m. and 3 a.m., he transformed from the highly educated gentleman-to-be into a common, coarse barmixer. Authentically imitating a Cockney accent, he blended and poured various sorts of beverages into the glasses of the pub's exceptionally thirsty customers, all the while secretly lamenting the fact that he was compelled to sink so low only to be able to afford the expenses of his student life. Yet he had no other choice at present, and he knew this was not going to last too long.

His employer was very content with him, for Ratigan had a certain flair for persuading his customers into buying more drinks than they normally would; and what is more, he began to habitually order his simple-minded colleagues about and pressure them to get on quicker and more efficiently with their work. These unmistakably entrepreneurial personal qualities made a special impression on his boss, Mr. Huxley, also a rat who had been managing the ugly but sufficiently prosperous business for over two decades. To Ratigan's complacence, the former surprised him one night, after having been under Huxley's employment as a barkeeper for a few months, with a particularly tempting offer.

"Mr. Wickham," Huxley began, "as I've already told you more dan once, I'm most sadisfied with your work – most sadisfied indeed. It don't occur too often that me bartenders show such leadership qualities – why, if I ain't mistaken, it never 'appened at all! So 'ere's what I wanna say to ya: as ya might 'uv noticed, I've become quite the old rat now; an me business'll need a new manager once I've retired, which is quite soon – da soona, da bedda fo me, hehe! I don't wanna give it all up now dat it's goin' so good, I mean, me 'avin put near 20 year of me life into it! So I'm arskin' ya – wouldja be interesstid in takin' over? I knows ya can do it; ya've got da mind of a businessman, I see! It 'ud be a great waste o' talent, if ya continooed ta woik pourin' drink loik a servant, when ya 'ave a natchral leader in ya!"

As the old publican had predicted, his employee was delighted at the offer. Indeed, it was a blessing, Ratigan thought, for he would no longer depend on the miserly wages for a barkeeper, but would be in charge of the entire pub. His co-workers were in awe of him already; the respect they had for him would doubtlessly increase once they were under his employ, which would be to his great advantage. However, he was aware that he would need to spend more time on his managerial duties than now with his serving-job; this did not work well with his current other employment as a typist – he would have to either terminate his contract there, or demand fewer hours of engagement. Nevertheless, he instantly agreed with the offer, and thanked Mr. Huxley as heartily as he could feign.

"Excillint!" Huxley cried. "I noo ya'd say yes."

And so, by the end of the following month, Mr. Stanley Wickham was the new proprietor of the _Rat Trap_.

It felt somewhat strange to Ratigan that he should find himself taking over a public house; it reminded him of someone in his past who wanted him to take over his dairy shop once he retired. Apparently, he could not evade the peculiar side-effect of attempting to entirely abandon the path that was originally designed for him; but it was merely a means to an end, nothing more. He now worked thirty hours per week for the Rat Trap, and ten at the lawyer's, which of course, no one in the pub knew – as it was not Padraic Ratigan who owned it, but Stanley Wickham. His studies progressed much slower than he would have desired; but thanks to his superior intelligence, he had to devote less time to studying than the majority of his colleagues at university.

He decided to impart an innovative touch on the pub so as to further increase the number of customers, and thereby, the profit made. The establishment already had a room for billiards and dart, which was quite popular; but Ratigan had the inspired idea to employ a pianist, as well as a few girls who would dance, sing and thereby entertain the visitors to a degree that solely drink and games could not. Shortly afterwards, three young ladies – mice – were hired; two of them – they went by the names Miss Lucy Keaton and Miss Ann Stoner – were already well acquainted with vastly more infamous affairs, and the other, Miss Lisbeth Smith, an orphan who had only recently reached adulthood, worked as a street vendor in Covent Garden during the day. What little money she had earned until the fortunate circumstance of obtaining additional employment at the Rat Trap, which she initially considered a stroke of immense luck, was through selling various kinds of odds and ends – combs, boot-laces, and matches among other minor articles. She did not suspect that in the future, something would occur which would significantly change her life.

Miss Lisbeth – or rather Lizzy, as she was commonly referred to – proved to be an astonishingly gifted performer. She had often lulled drunken regulars to sleep with her silvery, sweet tunes, and quickly became the main attraction of the pub; more and more people would come only to behold the bewitching beauty that was cream-furred, dainty Miss Lizzy. The other girls, who acted as back-up performers, completely paled in comparison. Entertaining strangers night by night made her previously even harder life more tolerable, although she began to despise the job after several months had passed, which, however, others would have been surprised to learn, as her singing and dancing were as impeccable as ever. It greatly discommoded her when offensive drunkards would attempt to get onstage- and sometimes succeed at it – and grab her by the skirt. Or constantly wolf-whistle her and shout out indecencies; or make lewd offers and expect her to readily accept them. Yes, it was a loathsome part-time occupation Miss Lizzy had chosen; but after her aunt had passed away, herself a poor, almost-illiterate mouse, but who was the only relative she had who would take her in after her parents' untimely death, Lizzy found herself all alone and destitute. Therefore, she regarded the Rat Trap's offer as a light at the end of the tunnel, which she had long felt she had to find her way out of. Selling random articles in the streets was simply not enough for her to support herself; and at least her fate was not as ugly as that of countless other poor does, who ended up as fancy women, as this was the only option they had. Lizzy thanked Heaven for bestowing upon her the gifts of song and dance, for she excelled at these arts without ever having received formal instruction. What she would possibly do without them, she dared not think about. Similar to her employer, who, like her, possessed naturally fine acting skills, she would lead a kind of double life; a modest, inconspicuous street vendor by day, a highly coveted temptress by night.

Mr. Ratigan, who, after having worked as publican for two years then, had earned and saved enough to be able to finally realize his dream of acquiring some more gentlemanly attire for his hours at the office and university; further, he was advancing quite satisfactorily with his studies, and had already begun writing his Master Thesis; and he eagerly looked forward to the day his magnum opus was completed. He was eminently content with Miss Lizzy, for her presence in the saloon alone guaranteed increasing profit; in fact, he dreaded that someday, she might wish to leave, for he considered it impossible to find a worthy successor to her looks and talents.

However, it so happened that one late summer afternoon, Miss Lizzy had made the acquaintance of a young middle-class mouse while she was working in Covent Garden. She had availed herself of all her feminine charms to persuade him into buying a blue and yellow striped scarf, though he had been rather unwilling to purchase it initially.

"Ah well, since you're such a lovely young lady, it's quite the effort to say no. Here you go, Miss, and do keep the change!", said the kindly stranger in the most amicable manner. Miss Lizzy was delighted.

"Bless you, sir! If I may say so, it looks particularly handsome on you!" she said with a perky little laugh. The other blushed, and chuckled modestly. Indeed, he was a quite good-looking fellow, with or without the scarf, which was actually not at all as 'handsome' as Lizzy had described it.

"Might I have the pleasure of knowing how to address the pretty damsel?" he asked with a smile.

"Miss Lisbeth's the name. Or Lizzy, as they call me," she answered, rather coyly. "How might I address you, sir?"

"Mr. Jacob Houston," the fellow replied. "Well then, a good afternoon, Miss Lizzy!" He bowed politely, as if to a lady rather than a costermonger. "Who knows, we may see each other again next time I pass by Covent Garden."

"Oh, I certainly 'ope so! Goodbye, Mr. Houston!" she said, beaming, and curiously watched him as he left, to whither she did not know. How amiable he was! It was a rare thing for a gentleman to treat a street vendor so graciously. Miss Lizzy truly hoped he would soon return to say hello.

And so he did, and on more than one occasion. As one may be probably be surprised to learn, the gracious Mr. Houston gradually fell in love with Miss Lizzy, after having spent numerous times conversing with her and being taken with her wit and genuinely good soul. Once, he enquired about her work, and asked how she managed to survive selling these strange articles. Lizzy went scarlet at the question, and she hesitatingly and quite ashamed, answered, "Well, Mr. Houston... to be frank, I couldn't if I didn't work elsewhere as well. I know you'll think less of me if I told you the truth, but I... well, I entertain the frequenters of the Rat Trap, you know, the pub, perhaps you've 'eard of it... I mean, I don't do nothin' _really_ nasty," she protested, as she noticed the look of horror on her interlocutor's face, "I just sing and dance, nothin' more... But it's an 'orrible business, anyway!" she cried, with audible emotion, and frowned. "If I wasn't so poor, and if any of my relations was still alive, I'd have better options. Oh, 'ow I detest working in that tavern, Mr. Houston! But it keeps some little piece of bread on the table. Been workin' there for over a year now, and I'm 'atin' it more and more every day." Her eyes filled with tears, which she struggled to restrain. "I really wish I could escape from that place, but I wouldn't know 'ow. I simply can't afford it. It's a damned curse for life if you ain't got no money."

Mr. Houston eyed her sceptically, but his upset expression soon faded. Indeed, what was life without any money? He could barely imagine it. He began to feel deeply sorry for the poor girl, and wished he could do something to improve her dreadful situation. True, she was a working-class mouse, and one with a scandalous avocation; but something about her character caused his enamoured heart to forsake all reason.

And therefore, though it could not be more uncharacteristic of a respectable young bank clerk, Mr. Houston, one October day, visited Miss Lizzy again, and holding a bouquet of flowers, proposed to...

"Marry me? Ah, you can't be in earnest, my dear Mr. Houston! You deserve somethin' far better than the likes o' me! Come on now, you know as well as me that this can never 'appen. It just ain't done that way! Are you tryin' to 'ave me on?" Lizzy cried in utter disbelief at his words. It was greatly embarrassing to her that a respectable mouse was asking her to marry him, when she was merely an uneducated street vendor and entertainer. More than that, it was so unrealistic! There was nothing she desired less than to cause scandal. While she admitted to herself that she, too, was lovestruck, she did not abandon her common sense unlike the amorous fellow. However, he did not seem to care.

"I can assure you that I couldn't be more in earnest, sweet Miss Lizzy!" he said. "I want to give you the chance to start a new life and leave your terrible past behind for good. I know you are the one for me, as I've never encountered such a lovely and kind girl as yourself. I don't care if you don't know so much, or can't read much! I shall teach you some of these things, and we shall be happy together. I can offer you a bright future, Lizzy! Please, do consider it. I've been a lonely bachelor for my entire life. My relatives are in Newcastle, and I will not have to justify my choice to anyone. Do you hear me, Lizzy? Nothing, absolutely nothing stands in our way!"

And although Lizzy secretly wished for nothing more than to spend her life with Mr. Houston by her side, she simply could not accept his proposal.

"I'll have to think about it," she finally said, so as not to discourage him entirely. But she knew that, realistically, it would do more harm than good if she did marry a gentleman such as him. Despite her limited education, Miss Lizzy was wise enough to always regard matters from a sensible angle.

That evening, she found herself in a woeful mood; for it _would_ have been a dream come true if she could accept the proposal. But alas! Some things were meant to remain dreams, and nothing more, or so she thought. Though it caused her spirit anguish of the greatest kind, she hoped that Mr. Houston would contemplate the matter more carefully, and ultimately change his mind. His pure-hearted character deeply affected Lizzy; yet she was aware, and feared, that if she really were to marry him, he would be impelled to regret his decision sooner or later.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Note: Miss Lizzy is NOT the showgirl we know from the film. That would be Miss Kitty. <em>**

**_"doe" = a female mouse_**


	4. Riddance

**A Withered Flower and New Seeds **

"_WHY?" _

A heart-rending plaintive cry echoed through the ladies' dressing room in the Rat Trap. Once again, poor Miss Lizzy was completely distraught, unable to stop weeping. A newspaper, dated two weeks earlier, lay on the floor beside her, a headline stating _"Bank clerk found dead at home"_. She had learned about Mr. Houston's decease from a colleague of hers, another street vendor who had been acquainted with her for some time and also knew a bit about her affection for Mr. Houston. Her colleague had actually intended to express her deepest condolences, which unexpectedly took Lizzy by the most horrific surprise. Indeed, she had noticed that Mr. Houston did not come to see her anymore, but she presumed this was due to her decline of his marriage proposal. In fact, she was initially relieved at his absence, since it had been her decision – albeit a painful one – to dissociate herself from him, at least for awhile. When she heard the dreadful news, she was stricken with immense grief. She refused to believe it was about _her_ beloved clerk, until her colleague showed her the chronicle the day after that, of which the descriptions unmistakably pointed to Mr. Houston.

Lizzy could not eat, could not sleep, could not perform. Her last show had failed miserably, since she was unable to concentrate on anything as thoughts about Mr. Houston raced through her mind. She could not have cared less about the crowd's atypical catcalls, of which, wretched as she already felt, she did not seem to take any notice.

Her employer immediately recognized that something was wrong with her, and privily correctly surmised the reason for her uncharacteristic fiasco. After the pub closed and the visitors had left, he could hear her woeful sobs break the silence of the night.

"Poor, poor Lizzy," the perpetrator quietly said to himself, releasing a mock sigh, before he walked towards the girl's room and knocked at the door.

"Y-Yes? Who's there?" said the shaky, grief-stricken voice upon hearing the knock.

With a creaking sound from the old door pushed open, Ratigan entered. Miss Lizzy had not expected her employer to come in, so she instantly gathered what little strength that was left in her and endeavoured to compose herself. She dried her swollen tear-stained eyes with her sleeve and stood up from the couch she had been lying on. She coloured, forced to present herself at her very worst to her principal, at first unable to look him in the eyes.

"Mr. Wickham, I deeply apologize that you find me in such a disastrous state," she then said quietly, facing the floor. "I truly wish I did not have to feel as I do. I understand if you are here to discuss my disappointing performance. I'm fully aware of how terribly I have failed. But when a girl is heartbroken, she can't do nothin' good no more."

Lizzy sniffled. The rat handed her a tissue which he had taken out of his pocket. The mourner thanked him and blew her nose.

"My dear, I am very sorry... indeed, your performance did leave much to be desired..."

Miss Lizzy hung her head submissively.

"...however, it was, I presume, an unfortunate exception. After all, you do know that you are my most esteemed employee?"

He feigned an amiable smile that seemed to belie his capacity for wickedness. Lizzy appeared to gaze into nothingness and did not respond. She feared coming across as rude, but tainted with sadness as she was, she could not divert her thoughts from anything but Mr. Houston's passing. Was it an accident? It could not have possibly have been...

...Murder?

Lizzy shuddered at the notion.

"Miss Lisbeth!" said Ratigan, his towering form stepping behind the diminutive doe. "If I may inquire, what in the world is it that upsets you so?" He placed a black gloved hand on her thin left shoulder, faking genuine concern as well as he could. Lizzy flinched slightly at the sudden touch, but continued to stare into blank space as fresh warm tears began rolling down her cheeks. After some moments, she swallowed, and finally spoke.

"Oh, I couldn't tell you, Mr. Wickham," she said, quietly and rather tense.

"You could not? But of course you could..." Ratigan released her shoulder and turned to face her. "I should imagine that you have been struck by Cupid's arrow and have been disappointed? 'Tis the most common source of woe, after all... is it not so?"

"You're not entirely mistaken, sir," Lizzy said. "But love did not disappoint me. It was Fate that did."

The rat raised his eyebrows. Upon his curious expression, the girl continued, almost in a whisper, "Death took him."

Her face froze.

"Ah, the poor thing! I really am most sorry, my dear," Ratigan said, as if apologizing for his own heinous deed, "Indeed, life can be incredibly cruel to those who least deserve it..." he added, pouting. "Well, I'm convinced you'll get over it, as we all do when we've lost something precious."

"I don't think I ever should," Lizzy sighed, shaking her head. "I don't think I can ever forgive myself..."

"Forgive _yourself_? For what, pray?"

"It doesn't matter."

After some moments of silence, Miss Lizzy looked up at her employer and said, "Sir, I shall do my best to perform well again tomorrow. After all... this wretched work is all I have to keep me from starving. Any hopes for a better future are shattered now."

Without further comments, but with an inner feeling of accomplishment, Ratigan bid his distressed employee good-night, left the room and lit up a cigar.

"She is mine," he thought to himself, exhaling a puff of smoke. "No one shall ever take her away, until she is withered and incapable! ...well, at least until Padraic Ratigan himself can forsake this filthy den and needs no longer live a double life." His mouth curved into a complacent smile. "It shan't be too long. But until that occasion... more money must come in."

_Indeed, life can be incredibly cruel to those who least deserve it._

Ratigan's hideous plan had in fact retained poor Miss Lizzy, who had no other choice, at the Rat Trap. However, as a negative side effect, her dancing and singing were never more to be as vigorous and agile as they once were. Those who had known her before took notice of the change; it seemed as though she found it arduous to smile, and besides that, she had grown even thinner than she had previously been. Nine months after the loss of Mr. Houston, she was still cheerless and depressed. Her once silvery tunes had forfeited much of their former euphony. Yet, in spite of all the dreary circumstances, and to Ratigan's contentment, Miss Lizzy still remained the most popular of the three entertaining ladies. Nevertheless, even he could not deny that she was growing frail.

Three years had passed since he started working at the Rat Trap, and the aspiring scientist had finished his first grand paper and was now Mr. Padraic Ratigan, _._ His professors would probably not have been easily convinced that he had managed to excel at this extraordinarily advanced academic achievement in spite of toiling full-time during the writing process. However, the overconfident and sedulous student was rewarded for his outstanding accomplishment by graduating _summa cum laude_. Not surprisingly, Ratigan's supervisor recognized his exceptional talent for analysis, and encouraged him to pursue a doctorate, which he had intended to anyway. His dream of professionally affiliating himself with the circle of academics was no longer a secret – at least some lecturers at the UCL's Department of Chemistry had become familiar with the idea. Shortly after his graduation, Ratigan was offered to work as a university assistant for the supervisor of his dissertation, the acclaimed Professor Howard Clayton. Ratigan's academic rival, Trevor Bloom, a high-achieving mouse who possessed the same aspirations as his opponent, but also rather conservative – or more specifically – racist opinions, was extremely vexed that "an arrogant sewer rat" should be preferred to him. This did not appear to slight Ratigan; but he knew very well the hostile feelings his opponent harboured towards him solely due to his inferior birth. He had become quite accustomed to the sentiment, which, though unjust, seemed to be prevalent among most of his peers. But being a minority also had its advantages; his more unprejudiced teachers, though no rats themselves, saw past the superficial social constructs and some of them were able to detect his singular dedication to the subject as their attention was drawn to him, initially, simply due to his similarly singular appearance. Ratigan stood out, whatever place he found himself in.

On a warm night of July, he happened to find himself at the Rat Trap. It was to be one of his last nights as Stanley Wickham. Now that he would work at the university, assisting his supervisor with research, and would earn a salary, there was no more need for him to manage the seedy tavern; though his influence on it was significant, and the pub had improved its image, which had been even worse before he had gained control over it, he realized that then was the time to abandon his status as its manager, for he no longer would depend on the money this loathsome and inferior work brought him. Though he had not been certain whether he would actually be employed at the Department of Chemistry so soon, he had already, beforehand, devoted much thought to the preparations necessary to make in case it did happen – which it did.

So he put his plans into practice. He had a long talk with his employee Bernard Glover, whom he convinced to take over the management of the Rat Trap – not telling him the true reasons why he wanted to leave, naturally – and the lucky Glover was, unsurprisingly, eager to supersede him. The truth was that Ratigan could not have cared less about the pub's future, since he did not see himself having anything to do with it anymore; but he pretended to promote Glover because he generously estimated his good work and insisted on a "worthy successor". By that time, Miss Lizzy was suffering from so severe a depression that she was no longer capable of enthralling her audience; this was the major flaw in Ratigan's plan to eliminate Mr. Houston, since he lacked the empathic ability in order to predict that his favourite entertainer would lose her spark if her loved one was gone. In spite of this, at any rate she did continue to bring in the money he was so desperately in want of until the day he left. However, having feared that she would not be of use to him for much longer, Ratigan had already arranged for a new showgirl to replace Miss Lizzy. Miss Katherine Fitzgibbons, more commonly known by the name Kitty, was recommended to the ex-proprietor by one of his employees who had known the girl in America before he had moved to London.

"Does she dance well?" Ratigan had inquired.

"Well enough, I suppose so," replied his employee, Peter Ryatt.

"Oh, but she must be _far_ better than average! I'm not looking for a mediocre entertainer. She must be able to replace our Miss Lizzy, who, in her present situation, no longer attracts visitors as she used to."

"Very well sir, I have to say she dances very well. Quite the tease, she is! Or so she was when I knew her in America. Not too long ago, sir."

"Sings well, too?"

"Oh yes, now I can guarantee that! I was surprised at the big voice that came out o' that sweet little mouth o' hers."

"Convince her to come here. I shall pay the cost of her journey. You knew her well, you say?"

"Mighty well, sir."

"According to your sound judgment, will she be a success here?"

"Aye, I'm sure o' that."

"Excellent."

And so it was that Miss Lizzy was ultimately dismissed by Mr. Glover, only shortly after Ratigan had left, and the notoriously coquettish Miss Kitty, almost equal to her precursor in age – though two years younger – as well as in good looks, was hired. Everything had gone according to his scheme, despite his absence. He never learned that Lisbeth Smith had died from pneumonia few months thereafter. And even if he had, it would not have affected him. Some might have been relieved for the unfortunate girl; for she felt that death alone could liberate her from all her misery and hopelessness. As for Jacob Houston – the cause of his demise, arsenic poisoning, was in fact discovered by some Scotland Yard detectives, but the culprits were never found. The faithful might wish to believe that the disparate, infelicitous pair was now united in heaven, forever free from earthly boundaries.

Ratigan, despite his high education still compelled to dwell in the deprived area of the Soho for the want of more money, had resigned from both his job at the lawyer's as well as given up the management of the Rat Trap, and now was able to devote his time entirely to researching for his doctorate and assisting his supervisor in the laboratory and the office. At least now, he could afford more refined clothes, and made a respectable appearance in his working environment in defiance of his immutable species, though there were still some who eyed him critically. Had they known more about the skeletons hidden in the closet of the object of their scrutiny, it would have truly adversely affected him! But they did not... Nevertheless, Ratigan was well aware that if he desired to thrive in academia, he would inevitably have to face many obstacles that could impede his life's dream from being realized. Prejudice against his kind, especially coming from upper middle class mice, was a potential hindrance that neither his intellectual capacity nor diligent work could eliminate so simply. He felt that his natural confidence and leadership qualities would either, in the best case, assist him in getting his way, or, in the worst, prevent him from it due to possible suspicion his exceptionally charismatic demeanour might cause. But he preferred to rid himself from doubt, and trusted that his manipulative abilities would somehow aid him in reaching his goals. Until then, he had indeed achieved everything he had aimed for, and by receiving the much hoped for position instead of that racialist Trevor Bloom, he proved to himself that he was capable of scoring repeatedly in a row. Losing was alien to him.


	5. A Withered Flower and New Seeds

**A Withered Flower and New Seeds **

"_WHY?" _

A heart-rending plaintive cry echoed through the ladies' dressing room in the Rat Trap. Once again, poor Miss Lizzy was completely distraught, unable to stop weeping. A newspaper, dated two weeks earlier, lay on the floor beside her, a headline stating _"Bank clerk found dead at home"_. She had learned about Mr. Houston's decease from a colleague of hers, another street vendor who had been acquainted with her for some time and also knew a bit about her affection for Mr. Houston. Her colleague had actually intended to express her deepest condolences, which unexpectedly took Lizzy by the most horrific surprise. Indeed, she had noticed that Mr. Houston did not come to see her anymore, but she presumed this was due to her decline of his marriage proposal. In fact, she was initially relieved at his absence, since it had been her decision – albeit a painful one – to dissociate herself from him, at least for awhile. When she heard the dreadful news, she was stricken with immense grief. She refused to believe it was about _her_ beloved clerk, until her colleague showed her the chronicle the day after that, of which the descriptions unmistakably pointed to Mr. Houston.

Lizzy could not eat, could not sleep, could not perform. Her last show had failed miserably, since she was unable to concentrate on anything as thoughts about Mr. Houston raced through her mind. She could not have cared less about the crowd's atypical catcalls, of which, wretched as she already felt, she did not seem to take any notice.

Her employer immediately recognized that something was wrong with her, and privily correctly surmised the reason for her uncharacteristic fiasco. After the pub closed and the visitors had left, he could hear her woeful sobs break the silence of the night.

"Poor, poor Lizzy," the perpetrator quietly said to himself, releasing a mock sigh, before he walked towards the girl's room and knocked at the door.

"Y-Yes? Who's there?" said the shaky, grief-stricken voice upon hearing the knock.

With a creaking sound from the old door pushed open, Ratigan entered. Miss Lizzy had not expected her employer to come in, so she instantly gathered what little strength that was left in her and endeavoured to compose herself. She dried her swollen tear-stained eyes with her sleeve and stood up from the couch she had been lying on. She coloured, forced to present herself at her very worst to her principal, at first unable to look him in the eyes.

"Mr. Wickham, I deeply apologize that you find me in such a disastrous state," she then said quietly, facing the floor. "I truly wish I did not have to feel as I do. I understand if you are here to discuss my disappointing performance. I'm fully aware of how terribly I have failed. But when a girl is heartbroken, she can't do nothin' good no more."

Lizzy sniffled. The rat handed her a tissue which he had taken out of his pocket. The mourner thanked him and blew her nose.

"My dear, I am very sorry... indeed, your performance did leave much to be desired..."

Miss Lizzy hung her head submissively.

"...however, it was, I presume, an unfortunate exception. After all, you do know that you are my most esteemed employee?"

He feigned an amiable smile that seemed to belie his capacity for wickedness. Lizzy appeared to gaze into nothingness and did not respond. She feared coming across as rude, but tainted with sadness as she was, she could not divert her thoughts from anything but Mr. Houston's passing. Was it an accident? It could not have possibly have been...

...Murder?

Lizzy shuddered at the notion.

"Miss Lisbeth!" said Ratigan, his towering form stepping behind the diminutive doe. "If I may inquire, what in the world is it that upsets you so?" He placed a black gloved hand on her thin left shoulder, faking genuine concern as well as he could. Lizzy flinched slightly at the sudden touch, but continued to stare into blank space as fresh warm tears began rolling down her cheeks. After some moments, she swallowed, and finally spoke.

"Oh, I couldn't tell you, Mr. Wickham," she said, quietly and rather tense.

"You could not? But of course you could..." Ratigan released her shoulder and turned to face her. "I should imagine that you have been struck by Cupid's arrow and have been disappointed? 'Tis the most common source of woe, after all... is it not so?"

"You're not entirely mistaken, sir," Lizzy said. "But love did not disappoint me. It was Fate that did."

The rat raised his eyebrows. Upon his curious expression, the girl continued, almost in a whisper, "Death took him."

Her face froze.

"Ah, the poor thing! I really am most sorry, my dear," Ratigan said, as if apologizing for his own heinous deed, "Indeed, life can be incredibly cruel to those who least deserve it..." he added, pouting. "Well, I'm convinced you'll get over it, as we all do when we've lost something precious."

"I don't think I ever should," Lizzy sighed, shaking her head. "I don't think I can ever forgive myself..."

"Forgive _yourself_? For what, pray?"

"It doesn't matter."

After some moments of silence, Miss Lizzy looked up at her employer and said, "Sir, I shall do my best to perform well again tomorrow. After all... this wretched work is all I have to keep me from starving. Any hopes for a better future are shattered now."

Without further comments, but with an inner feeling of accomplishment, Ratigan bid his distressed employee good-night, left the room and lit up a cigar.

"She is mine," he thought to himself, exhaling a puff of smoke. "No one shall ever take her away, until she is withered and incapable! ...well, at least until Padraic Ratigan himself can forsake this filthy den and needs no longer live a double life." His mouth curved into a complacent smile. "It shan't be too long. But until that occasion... more money must come in."

_Indeed, life can be incredibly cruel to those who least deserve it._

Ratigan's hideous plan had in fact retained poor Miss Lizzy, who had no other choice, at the Rat Trap. However, as a negative side effect, her dancing and singing were never more to be as vigorous and agile as they once were. Those who had known her before took notice of the change; it seemed as though she found it arduous to smile, and besides that, she had grown even thinner than she had previously been. Nine months after the loss of Mr. Houston, she was still cheerless and depressed. Her once silvery tunes had forfeited much of their former euphony. Yet, in spite of all the dreary circumstances, and to Ratigan's contentment, Miss Lizzy still remained the most popular of the three entertaining ladies. Nevertheless, even he could not deny that she was growing frail.

Three years had passed since he started working at the Rat Trap, and the aspiring scientist had finished his first grand paper and was now Mr. Padraic Ratigan, _._ His professors would probably not have been easily convinced that he had managed to excel at this extraordinarily advanced academic achievement in spite of toiling full-time during the writing process. However, the overconfident and sedulous student was rewarded for his outstanding accomplishment by graduating _summa cum laude_. Not surprisingly, Ratigan's supervisor recognized his exceptional talent for analysis, and encouraged him to pursue a doctorate, which he had intended to anyway. His dream of professionally affiliating himself with the circle of academics was no longer a secret – at least some lecturers at the UCL's Department of Chemistry had become familiar with the idea. Shortly after his graduation, Ratigan was offered to work as a university assistant for the supervisor of his dissertation, the acclaimed Professor Howard Clayton. Ratigan's academic rival, Trevor Bloom, a high-achieving mouse who possessed the same aspirations as his opponent, but also rather conservative – or more specifically – racist opinions, was extremely vexed that "an arrogant sewer rat" should be preferred to him. This did not appear to slight Ratigan; but he knew very well the hostile feelings his opponent harboured towards him solely due to his inferior birth. He had become quite accustomed to the sentiment, which, though unjust, seemed to be prevalent among most of his peers. But being a minority also had its advantages; his more unprejudiced teachers, though no rats themselves, saw past the superficial social constructs and some of them were able to detect his singular dedication to the subject as their attention was drawn to him, initially, simply due to his similarly singular appearance. Ratigan stood out, whatever place he found himself in.

On a warm night of July, he happened to find himself at the Rat Trap. It was to be one of his last nights as Stanley Wickham. Now that he would work at the university, assisting his supervisor with research, and would earn a salary, there was no more need for him to manage the seedy tavern; though his influence on it was significant, and the pub had improved its image, which had been even worse before he had gained control over it, he realized that then was the time to abandon his status as its manager, for he no longer would depend on the money this loathsome and inferior work brought him. Though he had not been certain whether he would actually be employed at the Department of Chemistry so soon, he had already, beforehand, devoted much thought to the preparations necessary to make in case it did happen – which it did.

So he put his plans into practice. He had a long talk with his employee Bernard Glover, whom he convinced to take over the management of the Rat Trap – not telling him the true reasons why he wanted to leave, naturally – and the lucky Glover was, unsurprisingly, eager to supersede him. The truth was that Ratigan could not have cared less about the pub's future, since he did not see himself having anything to do with it anymore; but he pretended to promote Glover because he generously estimated his good work and insisted on a "worthy successor". By that time, Miss Lizzy was suffering from so severe a depression that she was no longer capable of enthralling her audience; this was the major flaw in Ratigan's plan to eliminate Mr. Houston, since he lacked the empathic ability in order to predict that his favourite entertainer would lose her spark if her loved one was gone. In spite of this, at any rate she did continue to bring in the money he was so desperately in want of until the day he left. However, having feared that she would not be of use to him for much longer, Ratigan had already arranged for a new showgirl to replace Miss Lizzy. Miss Katherine Fitzgibbons, more commonly known by the name Kitty, was recommended to the ex-proprietor by one of his employees who had known the girl in America before he had moved to London.

"Does she dance well?" Ratigan had inquired.

"Well enough, I suppose so," replied his employee, Peter Ryatt.

"Oh, but she must be _far_ better than average! I'm not looking for a mediocre entertainer. She must be able to replace our Miss Lizzy, who, in her present situation, no longer attracts visitors as she used to."

"Very well sir, I have to say she dances very well. Quite the tease, she is! Or so she was when I knew her in America. Not too long ago, sir."

"Sings well, too?"

"Oh yes, now I can guarantee that! I was surprised at the big voice that came out o' that sweet little mouth o' hers."

"Convince her to come here. I shall pay the cost of her journey. You knew her well, you say?"

"Mighty well, sir."

"According to your sound judgment, will she be a success here?"

"Aye, I'm sure o' that."

"Excellent."

And so it was that Miss Lizzy was ultimately dismissed by Mr. Glover, only shortly after Ratigan had left, and the notoriously coquettish Miss Kitty, almost equal to her precursor in age – though two years younger – as well as in good looks, was hired. Everything had gone according to his scheme, despite his absence. He never learned that Lisbeth Smith had died from pneumonia few months thereafter. And even if he had, it would not have affected him. Some might have been relieved for the unfortunate girl; for she felt that death alone could liberate her from all her misery and hopelessness. As for Jacob Houston – the cause of his demise, arsenic poisoning, was in fact discovered by some Scotland Yard detectives, but the culprits were never found. The faithful might wish to believe that the disparate, infelicitous pair was now united in heaven, forever free from earthly boundaries.

Ratigan, despite his high education still compelled to dwell in the deprived area of the Soho for the want of more money, had resigned from both his job at the lawyer's as well as given up the management of the Rat Trap, and now was able to devote his time entirely to researching for his doctorate and assisting his supervisor in the laboratory and the office. At least now, he could afford more refined clothes, and made a respectable appearance in his working environment in defiance of his immutable species, though there were still some who eyed him critically. Had they known more about the skeletons hidden in the closet of the object of their scrutiny, it would have truly adversely affected him! But they did not... Nevertheless, Ratigan was well aware that if he desired to thrive in academia, he would inevitably have to face many obstacles that could impede his life's dream from being realized. Prejudice against his kind, especially coming from upper middle class mice, was a potential hindrance that neither his intellectual capacity nor diligent work could eliminate so simply. He felt that his natural confidence and leadership qualities would either, in the best case, assist him in getting his way, or, in the worst, prevent him from it due to possible suspicion his exceptionally charismatic demeanour might cause. But he preferred to rid himself from doubt, and trusted that his manipulative abilities would somehow aid him in reaching his goals. Until then, he had indeed achieved everything he had aimed for, and by receiving the much hoped for position instead of that racialist Trevor Bloom, he proved to himself that he was capable of scoring repeatedly in a row. Losing was alien to him.


	6. The Horrorglass

**The Horrorglass**

It was a late November morning around 6 a.m., still at least an hour before dawn. Ratigan had risen from his nocturnal repose, and, still surrounded by darkness, rubbed his eyes, lit the sconce near the small wooden washstand, which dimly illuminated the area around a very large oval mirror that hung over it. He took the ewer and poured unpleasantly cold water over his face, then took the strop that lay on the washstand and with the flexible leather strip, polished the blade of his razor. Having applied some soap, once he estimated the blade to be sufficiently sharp, he held it closely towards his cheek and began to shave, all the while regarding himself attentively in the looking-glass.

Suddenly, as an impulsive reaction to an utterly strange and terrifying vision, Ratigan tossed the razor aside in fright, gasping. An indescribably repulsive figure, with a ghastly grin, had, for a split-second, stared back at him. Shivering, Ratigan attempted to recompose himself, rubbed his eyes, yet beheld his own reflection as he was used to seeing it. What in Heaven's name had that horrid thing in the mirror been? Surely nothing but a figment of his fancy, his rational self suspected. He had slept little and was therefore rather prone to drowsy delirium. He squinted his eyes and looked into the mirror again; the terrible figure was gone. So it had been merely a mirage! Ratigan shook his head and muttered at his embarrassing fallacy, since he had almost believed that the thing he had seen had been real. He bent down to the floor and grasped the razor, which was slightly wet and foamy, and resumed his shave, almost conceitedly smiling at the sight of his own image being gradually groomed.

It was not long until he started once again, this time even more violently than before, and actually screamed. The beastly apparition had appeared anew, but did not seem to fade away. As if fixed into the speculum, it remained visible, and seemed to have replaced Ratigan's reflection. He was too much aghast to do anything about it, but nor did he know what unearthly thing it was that was haunting him; heart hammering, paralysed, and with his yellow eyes wide open, he gazed into the semi-glossy surface that displayed something other than what stood before it. However, what terrified him most was that there was a certain similarity between the detestable phantom and himself; but by no means did it correspond to his actual physiognomy.

A savage, feral rat with dark grey fur, quite larger and heavier than Ratigan himself, in tattered, dirty old clothing, stared at him, red eyes blazing, and exposing its sharp fangs in a vicious, diabolical grin. Though Ratigan had let go of his razor in shock, the rat in the mirror suddenly revealed the blade, firmly grasped in its clawed right hand and... began to move, as if prepared to strike at its corporal counterpart, though Ratigan still stood there, immobile. Petrified with horror, self-proclaimed omnipotent Ratigan cowered away from the phantasmal blow like a child desperately trying to evade a wrathful parent's spanking, covering his head in his hands, as if waiting for the barbaric figure to reach out to him through the vitreous boundary which still separated them.

"GO AWAY!" Ratigan cried, but the hideous mock reflection persisted, grinning even wider. All of a sudden, Ratigan heard familiar female voices calling his name, first whispering, then gradually growing more audible. Since there was no one else except for him in the flat, and his neighbour who lived three storeys downstairs alone never received anyone, especially not in the early hours of the morning, Ratigan had the uncanny feeling that the voices belonged to some unearthly spectres that had entered his space to haunt him. Or was it only a hallucination, an illusion in his mind? Of this he was uncertain, which only further increased his dread, for anything that was not of this world was most definitely beyond his control. His auditory attention was then directed towards the sound of water trickling down the eaves gutter, amidst which he thought he heard someone sobbing. Ratigan forced himself to look away from the mirror and his eyes darted through the room, up, down, left, right, and behind him, but there was no one he could see – until he faced the glass again, which by then appeared to be surrounded by small clouds of smoke.

"_What in hell's name—"_ Ratigan exclaimed, breathing fast and showered in pearls of sweat, yet unable to restrain his curiosity in spite of the surreal circumstances, continued to gaze into the looking-glass, dreading what would appear next. The sobbing grew louder, as did the whispers _"Padraic! Padraic Ratigan!"_ that seemed to echo through the dimly lit room and Ratigan's paranoid mind. And then it came – an image that awakened his guilty conscience like possibly nothing else could have.

From the curtains of the smoky haze appeared, in the tarnished mirror, to the right and left from the ghastly large rat, two female figures – rats also – like ghosts, first barely visible save their silhouettes, until they gradually became more recognizable to the one who was sighting them. Surely his eyes must have been deceiving him – or not? The voices from across the room now seemed to be coming from the lips of the two figures in front of him.

"_Padraic!"_

His name was apparently the only word the figures uttered. For a moment, Ratigan, extremely astonished, stepped closer to the mirror – the demonic brute that had stood between them had vanished, as earlier before! Instead, he saw himself – as he truly appeared, at that very instant – reflected in the looking-glass, standing between the two women. He could not cease to shake his head in utter disbelief. The women were none other than his departed mother and sister. He looked behind him – there was nobody there.

Ratigan retrogressed a few steps.

"Mother? ... Patricia?" he whispered, having mentally surrendered to the delusion.

He was going to attempt to touch the glass when in the twinkling of an eye, his reflection was again replaced by the monstrous, repulsive rodent holding the razor. Ratigan gasped. What was the meaning of this? What was that abhorrent, hellish fiend?

Suddenly, the savage beast cackled cruelly; this evolved into a maniacal laughter, as it held out its right arm and -

SLASH!

Ratigan let out a sharp scream as he simultaneously heard two splitting shrieks from both females – one following the other – and beheld the bloodthirsty animal strike them down with ease, like flies. They were dead!

"_NO!"_

Splashes of crimson liquid spattered the mirror. The monster was still laughing uncontrollably, while Ratigan's eyes poured instinctive tears of alarm, attempting to blink the blurry vision away. But as if it could not have got any worse, yet another phantasm appeared in front of him.

"You _MURDERER_!"

It was Miss Lizzy, his former mouse employee. Ratigan swallowed as he saw the girl yell at him through the looking-glass – or was she yelling at the brute? – in the fiercest, most enraged manner he would have never thought her capable of. That was not all.

"_It was you! You had him murdered, you wretched, godforsaken creature!"_ And she began to weep, loudly and incessantly.

His sister's spectre appeared again, out of the pool of blood, and bellowed, so unlike the gentle, permissive thing she used to be, _"It's all your fault! It was all your fault, all this time!"_

And his mother's spectre emerged.

Simultaneously, the three injured creatures shouted, "WE DIED BECAUSE OF YOU! _MURDERER!"_

Ratigan covered his ears and eyes with his hands, but it was in vain. That final word echoed in his head, louder and louder. He threw himself on the floor, shuddering in the utmost anxiety, but the noises around him did not fade. On the contrary – they seemed to increase, as he heard more voices – men's vitriolic screaming.

"Villain!"

"Brute!"

"Savage monster!"

"He'll never get far... he's nothing but a damned-"

"_SEWER RAT!"_

Ratigan heard these words repeatedly, increasing in volume.

"SILENCE!" he bawled, unable to focus on a single sound, as they were all intermingled. Females, males, rats, mice, relatives, strangers - it was too much to bear. He would go insane! Or was he already insane? The noises simply would not stop. He pulled himself together and got up, facing the mirror, which appeared to be dripping with blood. The figures of his mother, sister, and Lizzy were gone; only the devilish beast, whose roaring, evil laughter still haunted the glassy surface and occasionally grinned at its spectator, who was frightened to death, remained visible.

In all his desperation, Ratigan grabbed the ewer and hurled it against the mirror with all the force he had in his shuddering limbs. As he had hoped, at least the upper half of it broke into myriad pieces, some larger, some smaller. The despicable image had finally vanished, as had the insufferable noises and accusations. Relieved, as if spared from eternal damnation, Ratigan wiped the sweat from his face. The cursed mirror was destroyed at last.

However, Ratigan's fear had turned into rage.

"How _dare_ you!" he hissed at the disempowered broken looking-glass.

He started picking up the shards and cursed as he accidentally cut his forefinger on one of them. A drop of blood fell onto his trousers. Growling, he took a small porcelain bowl from the kitchen, which was merely a few steps away from his bedroom, filled it with water and washed his hands clean. His injured finger had stopped bleeding, though it had polluted the water and caused it to appear dull orange. Ratigan walked back into his room and while passing the mirror, he stopped.

"_Impossible_," he thought to himself, and his heart started pounding again.

Gradually, on the lower half of the mirror that had been spared from attack, a faint, ghostly message began to appear in letters seemingly seeping with scarlet liquid:

"_For your hands are defiled with blood, and your fingers with iniquity; your lips have spoken lies, your tongue hath muttered perverseness"_

He shrieked with terror. The looking-glass truly was cursed, and possibly by the Devil himself!

That morning's terrifying, inexplicable incident was never repeated, but only marked the beginning of many more of Padraic Ratigan's crimes to come. The odious monster had been unleashed.

And one fateful night, many years later, that vile image which had so haunted him in the mirror took shape in the earthly realm.


End file.
